


too foreign for home/too foreign for here

by mlraven



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, BDSM, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Comeplay, Cousins, Dirty Talk, Dom T'Challa, Erik Killmonger Lives, Feelings, Future Fic, Glasses kink, Hair-pulling, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Sub Erik
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-04-27 16:31:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14429649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mlraven/pseuds/mlraven
Summary: Erik finds a photo in T'Challa's desk and cooks up a surprise for him. It escalates from there.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Additional warnings:  
> Potentially-undernegotiated kink (Chapter 1 only)
> 
> Written for [this blackpantherkink prompt](https://blackpantherkink.dreamwidth.org/1637.html?thread=1125#cmt1125).
> 
> Thanks to a kinkmeme anon for the beta of the first chapter, and a discord anon for the beta of the second!
> 
> Title from Ijeoma Umebinyuo's poem "Questions for Ada"
> 
> All Xhosa from Google Translate, please let me know if I got it wrong!

He doesn’t know where T’Challa found the footage from the museum, though he’s not overly surprised that he has it. The Wakandan surveillance network has everything, and what it doesn’t have, it can easily get.

The first time Erik asked if they needed his help to hack into the CIA’s databases, Shuri had fallen on the floor laughing. Apparently, she’s been hacking foreign servers since she was three.

So it’s not all that unreasonable for T’Challa to have stills of his museum heist, though why he seems to only have the close-ups of Erik’s face that MI5 used for identification purposes...that’s a separate question.

Erik finds them in T’Challa’s desk drawer while looking for a spare tablet charger. Honestly, the most surprising part of this whole business is that someone _printed out_ the photos. Wakanda moved past laserjet printing over a century ago, so how the fuck had T’Challa gotten these made?

He takes advantage of T’Challa’s distraction, mediating a budgetary discussion between Nakia and the Chief Architect of the outreach center in Mombasa, to filch the well-thumbed photo and deposit it on T’Challa’s nightstand.

He positions it casually, one edge hanging off the low table, as if T’Challa’d simply forgotten to put it away after using it as...reference material. He eyes it— he needs to hit just the right combination of insouciance and allure for T’Challa to not immediately assume he’s being mocked— but he was in the CIA for years. He’s pretty sure he’s got this.

And if he’s miscalculated, well, he’s been meaning to go visit M’Baku. No time like the present.

  
  


Erik spends the afternoon wandering the market district, ducking into and out of stalls and shops seemingly at random. He spends twenty minutes sorting through strings of brightly-colored beads, watched over by a wrinkled old woman whose hands fly over a table loom. He picks out a set of combs covered in tiny azure beads for Shuri— she likes to wear her hair piled intricately on her head, braided and knotted tightly so nothing will interfere with her work in her lab.

He exchanges money for the combs with a murmured “ _Enkosi_ ” and tucks them in the pocket of his loose overrobe.

He stops at a fruit-seller to tap on a series of pomegranates. He debates trying to see how many he can fit into his pockets before the teenager minding the shop emerges from their Kimoyo beads to stop him, but he decides against it. He has better mischief to make tonight.

Eventually he arrives at a small shop, tucked away off the main road in a quieter neighborhood. He surveys the green awning, rippling in the light breeze, and the polished window beneath, behind which sit neat rows of his prize. He pauses, taking a moment to affix a polite smile to his face, and pushes open the door.

  
  


Erik returns to the palace with just enough time to stow his purchases out of sight before cleaning up for dinner. He brings the combs with him as he walks towards Shuri’s lab; he’ll try to slip them to her before dinner so no one accuses him of going soft.

He catches her as she’s leaving her lab. He falls into step beside her and bumps her shoulder with his.

“What up, Princess?” he asks, hands firmly in his pockets.

She ignores the question, calling the lift to exit the mines.

“I hope you have a good distraction planned, otherwise this meal will be very tense. Last I heard, Nakia was threatening to drop off the grid and seek funding elsewhere, rather than having to work with that jumped-up architect.” She raises a brow at him. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

Erik holds up his hands placatingly as they exit the lift.

“I had nothing to do with that, I swear,” he protests. “But I might be able to help anyway. When I saw the meeting on his calendar, I might’ve started arranging something,” he equivocates. “No one ever leaves budget meetings without wanting to drop T over a waterfall.”

Shuri flinches, then elbows him.

“Just because _you_ take pleasure in dropping him over waterfalls does not mean that _everyone_ wants to,” she says sharply, before grinning. “Although Nakia might be considering it, if he sided with the architect. You could give her tips,” she adds mischievously.

Erik chuckles and changes the subject.

“Hey, I found something earlier I thought you might like,” he says, gently shoving the tissue-wrapped combs into her hands and looking away quickly.

He misses her raised eyebrow— she’s not fooled by all his uncaring bluster, but she’ll let him get away with it for a while longer before calling him on it— as she unwraps the combs.

Shuri grins when she finds a set of hair combs covered in beads the exact shade of her new jacket. Uncaring bluster, indeed.

“These are lovely,” she says. “I do wonder where you just happened to ‘find’ combs that match my new jacket, though.” She grins wickedly as she makes air quotes with her fingers.

Erik clears his throat, feeling his cheeks heat.

“Oh, look, we’re here,” he says as if he hadn’t heard her, picking up the pace to cross the last few meters to the doors of the eating hall.

Shuri rolls her eyes and sighs, following him in.

  
  


They get through dinner with minimal bloodshed— Ramonda gracefully steers the conversation away from anything that might end in a fight. The closest they get is when T’Challa asks Nakia to pass the dish of lamb and she almost throws it at his head before Okoye intervenes.

Okoye hustles Nakia out as soon as they’ve both eaten, and the rest of the table disperses shortly after.

T’Challa makes noises about going back to his office before bed, and Erik nods, dropping a kiss on his head as he leaves.

“Don’t be up too late,” he calls, anticipation brewing in the pit of his stomach as he debates how to kill time until T’Challa appears.

  
  


Erik doesn’t have to wait long. He’s lounging in the outer sitting room of their suite, flipping through a book on Wakanda’s geological history, when the door opens to reveal a somewhat anxious T’Challa.

He looks up, trying not to smirk at T’Challa’s wary expression.

“What up, T? Done so soon?”

T’Challa shifts from foot to foot.

“Have you—” he starts, then backs up and starts again. “Do you know if anyone was in my office today? I seem to be...missing something.”

Erik adopts the most realistically concerned tone he can manage while his stomach seems to be attempting to vacate his body. “Jeez, T. What are you missing? For someone to have broken into your office, that’s pretty serious. Have you asked the Dora— they’re always guarding it. But what is it? I can help you look.” He sets the book down, preparing to stand up.

T’Challa takes an abortive step forward, hand outstretched as if to stop him from getting up.

“Ah— no, thank you, N’Jadaka, that’s not necessary. I’m sure it will… turn up.” He shoots Erik a smile that’s mostly grimace before walking further into their suite. “I’m just going to check in here,” T’Challa calls over the sound of opening and closing drawers.

Now that T’Challa can’t see him, Erik lets his excitement show on his face. If his smile reveals a few too many gold-tipped canines to be truly innocent, then that’s between him and Bast.

Paradoxically, the butterflies seem to have quieted down now that the moment has come. He forces himself to breathe as he listens to T’Challa venture further into their rooms, displacing papers and clothes and knick-knacks as he searches.

Suddenly, the rustling stops. Erik hears a sharp intake of breath from the bedroom, and strolls to the doorway of the inner sitting room. He leans on the doorway faux-casually.

“T?” he asks, shoving his hands in his pockets.

T’Challa whirls around, clutching the wrinkled photograph. His eyes are wide as he takes in Erik’s knowing expression.

To his credit, he doesn’t pretend not to know what it is. Instead, he skips immediately to apologies. _Typical T’Challa_ , Erik thinks, smirking.

“I am so sorry, Erik,” he says earnestly, still holding the photograph tightly. “It was an invasion of your privacy, and an abuse of our systems. I should not have taken it, and I certainly should not have taken it without your permission.” He bites his lip, looking anxious. “I will shred it immediately. It’s the only copy, so you don’t need to worry about anyone else doing anything...improper with it.”

Erik waits for him to finish, then lets his smirk take over his face until it’s more shark than smile.

“What if I _want_ you to do something ' _improper'_  with it?” he asks, relishing the look of surprise on T’Challa’s face.

T’Challa takes a deep breath, forcing himself to unclench his fist from around the photograph.

“Do I understand you to be saying that you would be willing to indulge my—” he falters.

“Your fetish, T,” Erik says, smirking. “And yeah, I’d ‘indulge’ you. It’s not really a hardship for me. In fact,” he says, walking into the bedroom to open a cabinet, “I picked these up earlier.” He pulls out a pair of wire-rimmed aviators. “Just in case.”

T’Challa gulps audibly. He tentatively reaches for the glasses, photo fluttering unnoticed to the floor.

“May I?” he asks, and Erik passes them over.

Erik watches as T’Challa examines them, watches his breath hitch as he strokes a fingertip along one earpiece. T’Challa holds them as if they’re something precious.

Eventually, he looks back up at Erik and clears his throat.

“Is this— how do you—” he starts, fingers twitching around the golden frames.

Erik holds out his hand for them.

“I was thinking I could blow you,” he says, voice slightly hoarse with arousal.

T’Challa’s eyes darken and he thrusts the glasses at Erik.

 _“Yes,"_ he breathes, hands darting to his trousers.

Erik stops him with a hand to his waist. “Let me,” he says, and leads T’Challa over to the tallest sofa in the inner sitting room.

He slips the glasses on and settles between T’Challa’s legs, anticipation tingling up his spine as T’Challa makes an appreciative noise at the sight.

Erik looks up at him for a moment, then nuzzles his face into T’Challa’s waistband to open the button with his teeth.

T’Challa gasps, hands flexing in the cushions.

Erik manages to get the zipper down before T’Challa grabs his collar and tugs him up for a bruising kiss. He groans in appreciation, eyes fluttering shut as T’Challa bites his lower lip, chasing the sting with his tongue.

When they break apart, Erik opens his eyes to find T’Challa watching him, the heat in his eyes almost palpable.

Holding his gaze, Erik reaches out to flick open the buttons on T’Challa’s shirt. Only once it’s removed does Erik break the gaze, bending closer to press open-mouthed kisses and glancing bites to T’Challa’s chest.

He pays extra attention to the dark nipples— they may still be learning each other’s specific interests, but this is one he’s confident he knows. He works them one at a time, knowing the unevenness drives T’Challa crazy.

He starts with his tongue, flicking gently over the nub, using the point of his tongue to trace around it. T’Challa moans when he scrapes his teeth over it, thrusting his chest out to chase the sensation. Erik lets him press into it, then goes back to soft licks with the flat of his tongue.

T’Challa starts twitching— Erik’s intentionally not giving him enough— choking out, “N’Jadaka, _please_ ,” and Erik rewards him by scraping his stubble-covered cheek over his chest.

T’Challa shouts, hands flying to Erik’s head to hold him there before he seems to remember where he is and he shoves Erik’s head away and buries his hands back in the cushions.

“I’m sorry,” T’Challa gasps, staring down at him, chest heaving as though they’ve been sparring. “I didn’t mean to—”

Erik smirks, running his hands up and down T’Challa’s thighs soothingly.

“It’s okay, kitten,” he says. “I like it rough.”

He holds T’Challa’s gaze as he grabs his hands and sets them in his hair, encouraging T’Challa to grab a fistfull of locs. When T’Challa tightens his hand experimentally, Erik’s eyes go fuzzy and he whines, high in the back of his throat.

Erik relishes the sting against his scalp for another moment before returning his attention to T’Challa’s nipples. This time, T’Challa does his best to distract him, alternating between pulling on his locs and dragging his short nails across what skin he can reach.

Eventually, T’Challa drags Erik off, hands buried in his hair as they both gasp for breath.

“Enough,” he says, voice rough. He nods at his lap. “I believe you have something else to attend to.”

Erik moans, eyes flickering shut without conscious thought at the command in T’Challa’s voice. Damn, they’re going to have _fun_ together.

T’Challa gives him another moment to breathe before firmly guiding his head down.

Erik mouths at the dark cotton that peeks through T’Challa’s open trousers. It’s already damp with sweat and precum, and it’s heavy with the musk of his arousal.

Without removing his mouth, Erik reaches up to grasp the waistband of T’Challa’s trousers. He tugs at them until T’Challa lifts his hips, allowing him to pull them all the way off, along with his slippers.

Erik had been planning to get T’Challa’s boxers drenched before removing them, but he gets impatient and sets his teeth into the waistband. T’Challa gasps as Erik’s teeth scrape over his abs.

Finally, T’Challa’s gloriously naked, hands still clenched in Erik’s locs. His gaze is dark as it sweeps over Erik’s body; still fully dressed, glasses glinting where they perch on the end of his nose.

T’Challa pauses to drag one hand up over Erik’s cheekbone, push the glasses further up onto his nose, caress the corner of the lens. He’s trembling slightly, and Erik turns his head to mouth at T’Challa’s hand. He kisses the palm and sucks his ring finger into his mouth, the wet heat a glorious preview of future offerings.

T’Challa watches him, watches his eyes flicker shut as he sucks in his middle finger as well. He moans when Erik fucks his tongue lewdly through the two fingers.

“I believe you offered to suck something else,” he pants, tugging on Erik’s hair. Erik whines and releases his fingers, trying to dredge up a witty answer as all of his thoughts dissolve into sparks.

He forgets all about banter as T’Challa scoots forward to sit on the edge of the sofa, thighs dropping open further, cock bobbing in his face. He doesn’t need the hand on his head; he goes straight for it, swallowing T’Challa down as far as he can.

T’Challa groans, dropping his free hand to Erik’s face.

“Look at you,” he says darkly, thumbing the edge of the glasses. “All dressed up— choking on my cock—”

Erik whimpers, muffled, and pulls back slightly to gasp in a breath before sinking back down greedily.

T’Challa drags his thumb from the glasses to Erik’s cheek, cursing as he presses on the outline of his own cock and Erik’s teeth dig in for a moment.

“Look at the way you suck me, like you were _born_ for it—”

Erik sucks harder, world narrowed to just the feeling of T’Challa’s hands on him, of the thick cock stretching his mouth. He forgets about anything other than making T’Challa feel good—

“—so good for me, N’Jadaka, _oh_ —” he gasps, wrenching Erik off and dropping his free hand to jerk himself frantically. “I’m going to come on you, you’ve been so good, _oh, N’Jadaka_ —” T’Challa’s voice breaks as he shoots, ropes of white splattering Erik’s face, his glasses, his outstretched tongue.

For a long moment, T’Challa just pants, staring down at Erik in wonder.

Then Erik whines, hips making an abortive gesture to grind against something, and T’Challa snaps out of his orgasm-induced haze.

He firms his grip on Erik’s locs and drags a thumb along Erik’s cheek, smearing his come even more. Erik turns his head to draw the finger into his mouth, suckling it clean.

“You’ve been so good for me, N’Jadaka,” T’Challa says, reaching down to tug on Erik’s belt loop. “Lift up so I can help you.”

Erik raises himself up on shaking knees, entire body quivering with need. T’Challa holds him up by his hair, using the tension to keep him upright as he reaches into his pants.

The moment T’Challa’s hand touches his cock, Erik freezes, trembling as he tries to hold himself still.

T’Challa thumbs his frenulum roughly, says, “Come for me, N’Jadaka,” and Erik’s gone. He barely registers T’Challa biting his neck as everything explodes white and stardust—

  
  


When he comes back to himself, he’s clean and warm and naked; T’Challa’s wrapped around him, face pressed to the back of his neck, hand stroking gently up and down his side. Somehow, they’ve made it to the bed, and the glasses are gone.

He makes a questioning noise and T’Challa presses a kiss to the nape of his neck.

“How long—?” he asks, voice rough with disuse.

“Almost an hour,” T’Challa answers, hand continuing its rhythmic motions.

Erik blinks slowly. It’s a sign of just how deep he went, that a twitch is all the surprise he can muster.

“How—” he starts, then clears his throat. “Where’d you learn that shit? You’re a fuckin’ natural.” He knows T’Challa would probably prefer to have this conversation face-to-face, but Erik feels wrung out; unable to shore up his walls enough to both have the conversation and let T’Challa see his face.

T’Challa chuckles, pressing a kiss to the edge of Erik’s shoulder blade.

“I’ve done this before, though I usually prefer to negotiate in advance.” He tucks a smile against Erik’s back. “If we do this again, we will negotiate first.”

Erik’s brain is still rebooting, but he thinks T’Challa just implied that he has enough experience to have a "usually.” He’ll revisit that another time, preferably when he hasn’t just had his brains fucked out of his ears.

He says as much to T’Challa, who just laughs in response.

T’Challa sobers, his hand finally stilling on Erik’s side.

“I am sorry that you had to find the photograph to get me to say anything,” he says quietly. “I should have begun the conversation sooner, instead of trying to hide. As usual, N’Jadaka, you are the braver of us.”

They lie together, breathing steadily, as Erik searches for the right words. He still feels stripped raw; if he tries to respond to T’Challa’s declaration, he fears he’d end up crying.

He takes a breath, summoning up his cockiest tone.

“Well, now we know this works, I’ve got a whole drawer full of glasses to try. What do you think for next time: hipster chunky plastic, or tinted Lennons?”

T’Challa groans, arousal and annoyance tangled together.

“ _Bast_ ,” he says. “You will be the death of me.”

Erik’s surprised to find that the words draw only a flicker of shame in the pit of his stomach.

He rolls over and tucks his face against the intersection of T’Challa’s neck and shoulder.

“Hopefully not,” he says quietly.

T’Challa wraps his arms around him and presses a kiss to the side of his head.

“Hopefully not,” he agrees.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _T’Challa is the picture of courtesy the next morning, waking before Erik and slipping out of bed with a gentle kiss to the top of his head and a murmured, “Go back to sleep.”_

T’Challa is the picture of courtesy the next morning, waking before Erik and slipping out of bed with a gentle kiss to the top of his head and a murmured, “Go back to sleep.”

Erik snuffles quietly and rolls over.

He’s not sure when exactly his subconscious classified T’Challa as a non-threat, but when he wakes up several hours later, the spacious bed is drenched in sunlight from the giant picture window that overlooks the city.

He sits up slowly, stretching and surveying the room. Something feels different, though he can’t immediately put his finger on what.

His eyes fall on the low table that usually sits next to the window, surrounded by bright cushions. It’s been pulled into the one corner of the room that remains shady as the sun rises, and on it sits a dish piled with crispy _mandazi_ , a carafe of dark coffee, and a small metal pitcher. The carafe is sweating; beads of condensation pooling at its base, but the pitcher must be insulated, because it only gleams dully in the refracted light.

This is new; T’Challa’s never brought him breakfast before. Maybe he feels unsure about last night.

Erik swings his legs out of bed and shuffles over to the table. He settles onto a cushion and flips open the pitcher, revealing the creamy, condensed milk Wakandans favor with their coffee. He pops a _mandazi_ into his mouth, relishing the fluffy dough and its fragrant mix of coconut and cardamom.

As he pours himself coffee and adds a splash of condensed milk, he notices a folded paper sticking out from under the dish of _mandazi_. He considers the message as he eats.

_My apologies for leaving without speaking; I have an early meeting to prepare for. If you are free at 13h00, please join me on the balcony for a midday meal._

T’Challa’s signed it with his usual flourish. The text is his typical, evasive self— no mention of last night, no indication of what they’ll inevitably be discussing.

Erik sighs. There’s nothing on his schedule at the moment, but that doesn’t mean that he can’t find something urgent that needs doing, if he wants to dodge this conversation.

He’ll think about it on his morning run.

  
  


He ponders it as he runs, feet and pulse thumping rhythmically.

Last night hadn’t quite gone to plan. Erik’d thought, after finding the photo, T’Challa would agree to anything out of guilt. He’d planned to pull out the glasses and teasingly offer a blowjob; take T’Challa apart until he was begging, until he was a nonverbal smudge of jelly on the sofa.

T’Challa’s experience was...unexpected. Hot as _fuck_ , but in no universe had Erik ever imagined that he might not be the (only) expert.

He runs through the city, taking a circuitous route toward the park on the western border. As he pounds over the pavement in the Business District, his mind strays to previous encounters.

It’s been years since he’s allowed himself something like last night; in the Seals and the CIA it wasn’t safe, and after that there’d been no time for anything but quick fucks to relieve tension. He might’ve _(might’ve)_ trusted Linda enough, eventually, but the heist took priority. Fulfilling N’Jobu’s legacy was a mission that left little time for distractions.

Erik shakes his head, shoving aside all thoughts of his father.

None of his previous encounters come close to last night, even accounting for the fog of age on all the memories. As usual, T’Challa puts all others to shame, like a candle that makes everything else dim in its vicinity.

The speed at which he’d gone under; the intoxicating tone of command that he’d obeyed instinctively; the way T’Challa knew exactly which buttons to press and when.

It’s terrifying— yet another way in which T’Challa reads him like an open book, plucking his strings to produce exactly his desired response. Erik chafes at the thought of T’Challa having yet another advantage, even as he recognizes that it’s that same intimate knowledge of him that allowed T’Challa to drop him so quickly and so sweetly.

Erik has to admit, he’s intrigued. He wants to know where T’Challa learned this _(with who);_ how much practise he’s had; what else he’s hiding under those robes. He wants _(burns)_ to know what T’Challa could do to him, if they tried this for real.

By the time he leaves the park, he’s made his decision.

  


T’Challa is late for their date.

Erik’s been on the balcony for ten minutes, attempting not to give in to his urge to pace, when T’Challa comes sprinting in, eyes wide.

“Sorry, so sorry!” he says, gaze skittering over Erik’s face, his faux-relaxed pose, the table of food. “My meeting—” he starts, then shakes his head. “You do not want to hear about Nakia and the architect right now.”

Erik raises a brow. “I do wanna hear, actually, but yeah, another time.” He takes a breath, affecting a bravado he hopes hides his nerves. “Food first, or straight to the negotiation?”

T’Challa freezes for a moment, then exhales, shaking his head with a smile. “I should have known you would not let this go.” He pulls out a chair and sits down. “Food first, then we can talk.”

  


Erik sits through three minutes of painful smalltalk before he says, slightly desperately, “Tell me about Nakia and the architect.”

T’Challa launches into an explanation of the ongoing struggle over the outreach centre: the architect has proposed a minimalist design with bright accents like Shuri’s lab, Nakia objects because minimalism reduces the centre’s capacity. She doesn’t dislike the aesthetic, but she’s opposed to wasting money on empty space that could instead be helping people.

Erik manfully restrains himself from rolling his eyes. “You know where I am on the style-v-substance debate,” he says instead, wiping his fingers and tossing the cloth napkin on his empty plate. He pauses, taking a drink of water. “We doin’ this?”

T’Challa fiddles with a bone on his plate before placing his hands firmly in his lap and meeting Erik’s gaze.

“I would prefer that you take some time to think about this, to decide if you want to negotiate. I do not wish to rush you,” he says solemnly.

Erik narrows his eyes, considering. This is probably just T’Challa’s ridiculous overprotective martyr streak; he probably assumes talking now will “pressure” Erik. He snorts internally. As if he could be pressured to do something he didn’t want to do.

T’Challa takes his hesitation as agreement. “I propose that you take several days to think. In three days, I will be at the top of the Great Mound at sunset. If, at the end of that time, you do not wish to continue, do not come to the Mound, and I will never mention this again. Your decision will not impact your status here, either in Wakanda or in my bed.”

Erik blinks rapidly, caught off-guard by the meticulous care in T’Challa’s plan. He’d been pretty sure of his decision before, but this cements it.

He swallows against the unexpected lump in his throat, forcing himself to meet T’Challa’s eyes. He hopes he sounds less shaky than he feels; anticipation and nerves and something terrifyingly like _hope_ fizzing through his veins.

“Nah, T. I don’t need three days; I’m ready now.” Erik leaves unspoken his gratitude to T’Challa for so deftly crafting an out; he’s pretty sure T’Challa hears it regardless.

T’Challa watches him for a long moment, then nods. “Okay,” he says simply. “Do you want to start with your history, or with your interests now?”

Erik flinches at the mention of his history, and T’Challa’s eyes widen.

“Erik— I did not mean—” he starts, but Erik’s already shaking his head, smile wry.

“I know what you meant, T,” he says. “But I guess this history is here too, much as you wanna ignore it.”

T’Challa graciously doesn’t call him on the choice of pronoun; they both know T’Challa’s not the only one who wishes their history was different.

Erik sighs, looking away. “Look— it’s been a long time since I did anything like that. I don’t know if the shit I liked before’ll still work. What if we just make it up as we go?”

T’Challa shakes his head. “I will not enter into this without a comprehensive discussion,” he says firmly. “You may have a reckless disregard for your own safety, but I refuse to encourage it. We will not play without a pre-negotiated agreement.” He pauses, watching Erik across the table. “You can take the next days to think,” he offers again.

Erik exhales and seems to deflate; shoulders hunching forward and head dropping down.

“Fine,” he says. A plaintive note creeps into his voice. “But can we move this to the bed?”

  


It’s easier inside; their limbs tangled together under the cool silk sheet.

Erik rests a palm on T’Challa’s smooth chest, feeling steadied by the rhythmic thud of his heart. He tucks his face into T’Challa’s neck, feeling goosebumps raise in the scant centimeter between them.

He takes a deep breath and says, voice low, “It’s not any specific thing. It’s more— not having to be in control all the time; not having to be the one with all the answers. It’s exhausting, out there,” he waves vaguely toward the rest of the palace before returning his hand to T’Challa’s chest.

“I just—” he takes a shuddering breath, squeezing his eyes shut. “I need to forget myself, sometimes. I need—” he cuts off abruptly, breathing hard. He’s clearly struggling to say something.

T’Challa waits patiently, breathing steadily as his heart aches under Erik’s palm. He doesn’t want to assume that he knows what Erik was going to say, but neither will he force him to say it.

Eventually, Erik manages to whisper, so low someone without enhanced hearing would surely miss it.

_“I need to be taken care of.”_

T’Challa’s eyes blur, and he feels matching damp on his neck, where Erik’s face is burrowed. He forces himself to breathe, to be sure that Erik’s done talking before he says his piece. After several minutes, their breath syncs up; Erik’s slowing to match T’Challa’s.

T’Challa presses a gentle kiss to Erik’s head.

“I can do that,” he says softly, voice firm. His arms tighten around Erik, and T’Challa feels the last of the tension drain from him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there was no porn in this chapter. It's coming, I swear! They insist on _talking_ before they'll fuck, how rude. :D
> 
> Thank you to the everyone for the encouragement and ideas for how to continue this! And an especially enormous thanks to all the Discord people for the inspirational gifs, flailing, and help with figuring out T'Challa and Erik's kinks. More to come... >:D
> 
> Specific thanks to [Galaxiaa7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/galaxiaa7), [selfinduced](https://archiveofourown.org/users/selfinduced), and the people who think their contribution didn't merit enough to be credited (it did. :P) on Discord!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _By the middle of the week, Erik’s anxiety has faded to a thrum of anticipation. His heartbeat thuds steadily, a grounding backup track as he paces. Now that he’s become accustomed to the idea, he struggles to keep himself distracted enough that he doesn’t sprint over to T’Challa’s office and drop to his knees at T’Challa’s feet._

They take a nap after they finish talking.

Erik feels unexpectedly wrung out from the heavy conversation and dozes off, exhaling even breaths against T’Challa’s chest. T’Challa spares a thought for his afternoon schedule and decides the work can wait. Being here, now, is more important than reviewing the quarterly reports from the mine.

  
  


They wake when T’Challa’s beads chime, muffled slightly by the bedclothes.

Erik groans, rolling away from T’Challa to bury his head under a pillow. T’Challa sits up, rubbing his eyes as he answers the call.

“Yes?” he asks, voice slightly scratchy.

“Were you sleeping, Brother?” Shuri asks, surprised. He hasn’t enabled the visual link, so she can only hear him. “Nevermind that, the design group wants to know if you’re still visiting today. The lab is spotless, and it will only stay that way for so long,” she warns.

T’Challa glances out the window, surprised to see the sun is low in the sky.

 _“Bast,”_ he swears, flicking up his agenda on his beads. Sure enough, the visit is on his calendar, scheduled to begin almost an hour ago. “I forgot, I’m sorry. I can get there in twenty minutes, if you are all willing to stay later than expected. I can order a nice supper for everyone, to make up for my mistake,” he offers.

Shuri huffs a breath, eye-roll almost audible. “We’ll be fine, as long as you get over here quickly. How on earth did you manage to fall asleep while the sun was still up?”

“It doesn’t matter,” T’Challa replies distractedly, already searching for his trousers. “I’ll be there shortly.”

  
  


Visiting the lab becomes supper at the lab. Shuri ends up dismissing the rest of the design group so the siblings can have a friendly argument over the most efficient way to use nanites to repair Wakanda’s protective barrier.

By the time T’Challa grudgingly admits that Shuri’s plan is better, the sun has long since set. They return to the palace, Shuri yawning as she turns toward her own rooms.

T’Challa hesitates for a moment— where to go; to his office to finish the work he was supposed to do this afternoon, or back to their rooms? Erik has made his choice easier, though: his beads chime with a note saying he’s going to sleep early and that T’Challa should go catch up on “the boring shit.” The underlying affection is clear, as is the undercurrent of relief that T’Challa’s the one in charge.

T’Challa smiles and heads for his office.

  
  


T’Challa’s week passes in a haze of council meetings, budget reviews, and mediating the increasingly venomous disagreements between Nakia and the architect. Eventually, he snaps and tells them the architect will add another floor of beds, and Nakia will give him free reign over the arrangement of the public areas. He goes to bed that day with the shadow of a headache.

By contrast, Erik’s week feels longer. For several days after their conversation, he feels depleted, sensitive in a way he hasn’t in a long time. He keeps himself busy: mucking out the war rhinos’ stalls, going for punishingly-long runs, bugging Shuri in her lab.

T’Challa is busy enough that they see each other infrequently, and rarely alone. Erik still eats with the rest of the family, discussing Assata Shakur with Nakia as Shuri chatters about her latest inventions and Ramonda watches them all fondly. T’Challa works through several meals, eating in his office, and when he does join them he spends much of the time staring into space. They still sleep together, but neither has the energy for anything more than a drowsy kiss before they fall asleep curled together.

T’Challa’s absence gives Erik the opportunity to breathe, to adjust to the sensation of exposing yet more of himself. Erik reminds himself that T’Challa will hold his vulnerabilities gently, respectfully. He’ll protect them from prying eyes, as he has those Erik’s revealed previously.

By the middle of the week, Erik’s anxiety has faded to a thrum of anticipation. His heartbeat thuds steadily, a grounding backup track as he paces. Now that he’s become accustomed to the idea, he struggles to keep himself distracted enough that he doesn’t sprint over to T’Challa’s office and drop to his knees at T’Challa’s feet.

Thoughts of their next time consume him— he spends more than one long shower touching himself, imagining his hands are T’Challa’s. Envisioning what T’Challa will do to him now that he knows what makes Erik tick, now that they’ve discussed it to death. The images he builds are spectacular, but the orgasms feel slightly hollow.

After two days, even that isn’t enough to sate him. He goes poking around T’Challa’s calendar, looking for any block of free time to take advantage of, no matter how tiny. There’s a suspiciously blank section of the weekend, unlabeled, and sans location or invitees. Erik grins. If T’Challa is planning to do something kingly with that time, he’s going to be disappointed.

  
  


The evening before the mysterious appointment, T’Challa actually comes to dinner and seems present, if tired. Erik resigns himself to another night alone while T’Challa burns the midnight oil.

Instead, T’Challa leaves with him, walking toward their rooms. He tugs Erik’s sleeve, nodding his head toward the gardens. “It’s lovely tonight, will you take a walk with me?”

Erik cocks his head, assessing, then nods.

They stroll through the gardens, T’Challa pausing every so often to appreciate a flower or leaf up close. T’Challa seems completely comfortable with only the ambient noises, but the longer they walk aimlessly, the more fizzing Erik feels under his skin.

He’s about to break down and say something when T’Challa stops, pushing aside a curtain of hanging jasmine to uncover an alcove. The alcove is cosy; a tall stone wall surrounds a shallow reflecting pool, and a small acacia tree serves as a roof through which the stars are visible on clear nights. There’s a bench at the foot of the tree, positioned such that, from their seat, one can dip their toes in the water.

Erik feels heat coil up his spine. _This is it._

They sit on the bench, thighs pressed together. T’Challa’s silent for so long that Erik wonders if he’s going to have to be the one to say it.

Finally, T’Challa says, tone approximating casual, “Do you have plans tomorrow? If you are free, I would like to spend some time together.”

Erik’s torn between a victory fist-pump and a groan. He splits the difference, asking, in the same faux-casual tone, “Why not tonight?”

T’Challa sighs. “Unfortunately, there is still more work to be done so we can break ground on the Mombasa outreach centre next week. If I finish it tonight, I can devote the weekend to… more pleasurable things,” he says, abandoning the fake disinterest for a wicked smirk.

Erik swallows at the intensity of T’Challa’s eyes. “Yeah,” he says, voice suddenly rough. “I’m free this weekend.”

“Good,” T’Challa says, satisfied. He stands, fisting a hand in Erik’s locs and tugging him up for a hard kiss. When he pulls away, a whine escapes from Erik’s mouth, involuntarily.

T’Challa’s eyes search his, hand still grasping Erik’s hair. He must be satisfied by what he sees because his eyes darken even further and he nods.

“This weekend, you’re mine,” he says, voice deep with promise, before releasing Erik’s hair and sauntering out of the alcove.

It takes Erik almost two hours, several failed attempts at meditation, and one muted orgasm to gather the strength to go back inside.

  
  


Erik spends the evening tossing and turning, half-hard and brimming with nervous energy. Eventually the excitement fades to a quiet hum, allowing him to slip into a fitful doze. At some point in the night T’Challa slides into bed next to him, and Erik falls fully asleep with T’Challa’s warm palm resting on his shoulder.

  
  


Erik wakes up to find that, for the first time in almost a week, he’s not alone in bed. T’Challa is sitting up against the headboard doing work, flicking between his Kimoyo beads and a tablet, but he’s actually present. As far as Erik’s concerned, that’s a win.

He inches over, pressing a sleepy kiss to T’Challa’s sheet-covered thigh. T’Challa sets the tablet on his bedside table and curls over Erik, cupping his jaw with his hand and kissing him deeply.

Eventually, T’Challa breaks the kiss, keeping his forehead pressed against Erik’s.

“Good morning,” he says, voice rough. “Please eat something while I wash; you’ll need your strength. When you’re done, you can have the bathroom while I prepare.”

Erik swallows hard; he blames the early hour for how easily affected he is. He deflects.

“Why can’t we shower together? It’ll be more efficient,” he tries.

T’Challa smirks. “You know it will not be,” he reminds Erik. He adds, as if an afterthought, “And it will ruin the surprise.”

Erik’s eyes widen; he’s fully awake now. Before he can respond, T’Challa is sliding off the bed, hips swaying mesmerizingly as he walks to the bathroom.

Erik falls back on the bed, throwing an arm over his face and groaning. T’Challa’s gonna be the death of him.

  
  


When Erik gets out of the shower, he hesitates for a moment before slinging a towel around his hips. Usually he has no problem with nudity; any modesty he might’ve once had was long ago stripped away by foster care and the military. There’s something about today, though, that makes him reach for the towel anyway.

Rationally, he knows that no scrap of fabric, vibranium-woven or not, stands a chance against a determined T’Challa, but there’s something about the uncertainty of T’Challa truly _seeing_ him that makes him feel like he needs the barrier, the illusion of protection.

He takes a deep breath and walks back into the bedroom.

The room is dimmer than it was when he left; the picture window is tinted to provide privacy. T’Challa’s set several vibranium lamps around the room; they cast a gentle glow on the neatly-turned down bed. The sheets have been changed to a darker pair, and the bedspread has been removed.

On first glance, Erik doesn’t see any toys. He raises a brow and walks further into the room to do a more complete search. Oddly, he only turns up a jar of something lightly-scented and a blindfold, both sitting innocuously on T’Challa’s bedside table.

Before he can get too far into his head, the door to their sitting room opens and T’Challa enters.

Erik inhales sharply. There’s nothing visibly different about T’Challa’s naked body, and yet…

His gaze is dark, intense as it sweeps over Erik’s body. Bast’s blessing is clear in the lithe lines and coiled strength as T’Challa prowls towards him. He stops barely a handwidth away, close enough for Erik to feel T’Challa’s breath against his skin.

Erik shivers, unbidden. This is it.

T’Challa fists one hand in the top of the towel, raising an eyebrow at Erik.

“Do you need this?” he asks politely, tone almost impersonal, with an unmistakable undertone of command.

Erik swallows, shakes his head.

T’Challa nods approvingly. “Good,” he says, and pulls the towel off. He fists a hand in Erik’s damp locs, tugging him closer to press their lips together.

T’Challa’s soft kisses contrast with his firm grip on Erik’s hair, and Erik feels his eyes close unexpectedly.

He’s peppering the kisses all over Erik’s face; concentrated on his lips, but straying to his cheekbones, his jaw, his eyelids. He’s keeping his mouth almost entirely closed, with just the occasional teasing kitten lick.

When T’Challa makes no indication of deepening the kiss anytime soon, Erik whines, trying to thrust his tongue more fully into T’Challa’s mouth.

T’Challa leans back, grip like iron as he holds Erik in place by his hair. The additional tension makes sparks erupt all over his scalp, spreading down his spine. He makes an abortive grasp at T’Challa, who tsks.

“Now, now,” he says, amusement tinged with a hint of arousal. “I thought we were doing this my way today. If you’ve changed your mind, you know how to stop this.”

Erik huffs, clenching and unclenching his fists as frustration and desire war within him. Finally he exhales, shaking his head.

“I’m fine,” he says, voice rough. “But damn, T, can we skip to the good part?”

T’Challa smirks, eyebrow raised. “Get on the bed then, if you’re so ready for the ‘good part,’” he says, challenge clear.

Erik is on his back on the dark sheets almost before T’Challa can blink.

T’Challa chuckles, prowling over to the side table to pick up the blindfold.

“You’re eager,” he remarks idly, perching on the edge of the bed. He drops the blindfold on Erik’s chest and plants his hands on either side of Erik’s head, bringing their faces together. From inches away, he watches as the gentle susurration of the silk-vibranium against his pebbled chest makes Erik tremble.

Any response Erik might’ve intended to make is swallowed in the intensity of T’Challa’s gaze.

“We are doing this my way,” T’Challa reminds Erik, voice rough. “If you have concerns, use the safeword. Otherwise, you will lie here, and I will do as I wish. Don’t worry about the what, or the when. Today, these are my responsibilities.”

His eyes darken even further, and he shifts his weight onto one hand to bring the other up to cup Erik’s jaw. “I will take care of you,” he promises.

Erik’s chest feels too tight; he looks away, tilting his chin toward the cloth on his chest.

“A’ight,” he says, affecting indifference as he nods at the blindfold. “You gonna put that on me, then?”

T’Challa growls, sitting up and swinging a leg over Erik. Erik’s half-hard cock brushes T’Challa’s ass as he settles, straddling Erik’s abs. Erik barely has time for a surprised gasp before T’Challa’s lifted his head and tied the blindfold firmly over his eyes.

“Can you see?” T’Challa asks, voice rough.

Erik shakes his head.

“Good,” T’Challa says, raising up onto his knees over Erik. “Now stay where I’ve put you and let me make you feel.”

The hairs on Erik’s arms stand up, and he has to consciously remind himself that T’Challa won’t take advantage of him; that this is safe. The worst that could happen is he gets so bored he has to go take care of things himself.

He’s startled out of his head by the sensation of T’Challa’s fingertip, tracing over the scars on his shoulder. The touch is so light it’s almost ticklish and Erik squirms, trying to push his chest more firmly into T’Challa’s hand.

T’Challa tsks, withdrawing his hand and sinking back on Erik’s thighs. He waits for Erik to settle, which he does, with a huff.

“C’mon, ‘challa, I’m not gonna break,” Erik says, a plaintive note in his voice.

Suddenly, T’Challa’s fingers are clamped around Erik’s wrists, holding them to the bed. T’Challa leans forward, mouth almost brushing Erik’s ear as he speaks.

His voice is steely. “ _I_ am in charge here, and _you_ do what _I_ say. Now _stay. put.”_ He punctuates with a nip to the skin under Erik’s ear.

Erik swallows heavily and nods, forcing himself to relax. T’Challa stays crouched over him, breath prickling up his neck. Erik forces himself to breathe, to wait T’Challa out.

He’s startled out of his head by the sensation of T’Challa’s tongue on his collarbone, tracing the edge where the smooth skin turns into the field of scars. Erik thinks he’s just using the tip of his tongue, but it’s difficult to discern the subtleties in an area of reduced sensation.

The slight numbness seems to heighten his awareness of the unscarred skin next to it; when T’Challa switches to broad licks, electricity crackles behind, spreading through him like the branches of a lightning bolt.

He doesn’t realize he’s moaning until T’Challa pauses, pulling off long enough to grab the jar from the side table. The silence rings in his ears, but before any self-consciousness can present itself, T’Challa’s mouth is back on his collarbone.

This time, he alternates the licks with open-mouthed kisses, and Erik hisses at the hint of teeth against the raised skin. It’s oddly muffled— Erik can only tell he’s using his teeth because of the pointedness of the pressure.

Erik shifts restlessly under T’Challa. The pace is maddeningly slow, leaving him too cognizant of the proceedings. He finds himself cataloguing T’Challa’s kisses, anticipating where the next will fall.

He’s almost decided to say something when T’Challa starts murmuring against his skin.

“So beautiful, N’Jadaka,” he says, pressing lingering kisses to each individual scar.

Erik gasps, ragged. He feels something inside him crack, tiny fissures developing in the cage around his heart.

T’Challa continues, moving to the longer scars on his sternum, laving them with his tongue in between murmurs.

_So perfect, N’Jadaka. So good for me, to me._

Erik feels the words burning into him, warming him up in places he never knew were cold. He feels like he’s in freefall, the rush of adrenaline mixed with the security of knowing that T’Challa will catch him.

One of T’Challa’s hands caresses Erik’s thigh as he lips the lines of scars surrounding his belly button. Erik moans, heat coiling in his gut.

_So strong for so long, but so lonely. I have you now; you can let go._

Erik’s keening, distantly aware that T’Challa’s picked up his wrist and is thumbing the pulse as he worships the scars on his arms. He’s out-of-body, floating in the sea of praise and warmth.

He loses time— suddenly T’Challa’s mouthing his balls, lapping at the head of his cock. His hands are everywhere.

_So bright, so brave. Such dedication to others, regardless of the sacrifice._

The blindfold is damp against his face, tears leaking out from beneath the edge to slip into his hairline. T’Challa presses kisses along the tear tracks, and Erik actually wails. He’s too far gone to even think of posturing while T’Challa’s lavishing him with love and affection.

At some point T’Challa’s managed to open the jar and slick up his hand, because when he palms Erik’s cock, it glides easily in his grip. Erik’s in so deep that the hand on his cock almost feels incidental, the concept of coming so remote it’s almost irrelevant.

_I’m here, N’Jadaka; let me take care of you. I will always take care of you._

Erik comes with a cry like a wounded animal, orgasm surprising him like a stab-wound to the chest.

All he knows after is darkness.

  
  


He comes back to himself incrementally, distantly aware that someone seems to be purring. His eyelids are heavy; opening them seems unnecessary.

He feels T’Challa’s firm chest under his cheek, rising and falling steadily, in time with the calloused palm stroking up and down his spine.

He feels like his bones have liquified. Moving is a foreign concept, but he has a vague sense that they weren’t in this position before. He idly wonders how they ended up like this, thought flitting away almost as soon as it comes.

T’Challa presses a kiss to the top of his head, murmuring something indistinct, words muffled by Erik’s hair.

Erik is content to lie like this, basking in T’Challa’s incandescent glow. In theory, he knows that he’ll have to come down at some point, but the world outside this bubble of warmth seems incorporeal, at best.

Slowly, he becomes aware of his fingers, tingling slightly where they lie under T’Challa’s shoulders. He twitches them, curious in a removed way, and T’Challa stops rubbing his back to cup his cheek.

“Alright, my love?” he asks, quiet voice husky.

Words are still abstract; they belong to the world outside of this cocoon. He manages a nod, pressing his slack lips against T’Challa’s chest. Pursing them into a kiss is too much effort, but he’s pretty sure T’Challa understands the response for what it is.

The part of Erik’s brain that’s still floating notes that the purring stopped around the time he was trying to muster a response. Huh.

He can’t remember a time when he’s felt this at peace, his eternal drive to put the entire world to rights still present, but dampened in urgency. It’s strange; he expects to feel guilt, but instead there’s something akin to relief.

T’Challa caresses Erik’s cheek, thumb lingering at the corner of his mouth. He brushes another kiss to Erik’s head and returns his hand to its rhythmic track on his back.

“Rest,” he says. “There is nothing pressing to attend to.”

Erik nuzzles T’Challa’s chest, purring in the back of his throat. Fuck it; he’s hazy enough not to care.

They stay curled up together, time blurring as Erik slowly sinks back into his body.

Eventually he stirs, blinking his eyes open. He tilts his chin up and meets T’Challa’s warm gaze.

“Hello, beloved,” T’Challa says, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Erik smiles dopily at the endearment. “Hey,” he replies, voice hoarse. He clears his throat, takes a breath. _“Thank you._ That was…” he closes his eyes for a moment, searching for the words.

Getting the ‘thank you’ out was easier than he expected, but he can’t find anything close to what he’s trying to express. He makes a helpless noise.

He opens his eyes and sees understanding in T’Challa’s gaze.

“You are most welcome,” T’Challa says, expression soft. “Thank you for trusting me with this.”

In response, Erik extricates his arms from under T’Challa, pushing himself up to bring their foreheads together.

“I love you,” he says, voice thick with emotion. “I’ve never—” he breaks off, breathing raggedly.

T’Challa cups Erik’s cheeks and kisses him; slowly, tenderly.

“I know,” he affirms, drawing back enough to press their foreheads together again. “I am here, and I will take care of you for as long as you let me.”

Erik makes a noise like a sob. He fishes desperately for a snarky comeback; anything to lighten the mood. In the end, he swallows his terror and chooses sincerity.

“Good,” he says, voice rough. “I’mma hold you to that. You’re stuck with me, now.”

T’Challa chuckles, wrapping his arms around Erik’s torso. “I am glad to be,” he replies.

Erik settles into T’Challa’s embrace, suffused with warmth. His heart beats a loop of _comfortsafetylove_.

For the first time since N’Jobu’s death, peace is on the horizon.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is now complete! I may write more in a similar vein, but this fic is done.
> 
> Thank you all for encouraging me to write more. A special thank you to everyone in the Discord, who's been so enormously helpful in so many ways. You guys are the best.
> 
> A GIGANTIC thank you to [Galaxiaa7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/galaxiaa7) for the detailed beta and the help ironing out the kinks ;D You're awesome.


End file.
